Wandering in Woodacre – 12 November 2020

This Date in Art History: Born 12 November 1840 – Auguste Rodin, a French sculptor.

Below – “The Thinker”; “The Kiss”; “The Burghers of Calais”; “The Shade”; “The Bather”; “Danae.”


A Poem for Today

“Produce Wagon”
by Roy Scheele

The heat shimmer along our street
one midsummer midafternoon,
and wading up through it a horse’s hooves,
and each shoe raising a tongueless bell
that tolled in the neighborhood,
till the driver drew in the reins
and the horse hung its head and stood.

And something in a basket thin
as shavings (blackberries? or a ghost
of the memory of having tasted them?)
passing into my hands as mother paid,
and the man got up again,
slapping the loop from the reins,
and was off on his trundling wagon.

Below – Yehor Antsyhin: “Rural view”

Contemporary Estonian Art – Tiiu Tulev-Soots

Below – “Hydrangeas”; “Lotus”; “Black Ocean”; “Coastal Idyll”; “Hydrangeas, 2.”


This Date in Literary History: Born 12 November 1906 – George Dillon, an American poet and recipient of the Pulitzer Prize.

“Address to the Doomed”
by George Dillon

Say it is life that matters. Say the bone
And flesh that blazoned it are but a book
Mislaid, forgotten, and the meaning known.
I will believe, but I have lived to look
On the cold body of the beautiful dead,
White and immobile as the moon in air –
The imperious heart being strangely quieted,
And the proud spirit flown I know not where.
Say it is earth again.  Let it be hid
In ruined leaves.  Account it as the dust
That quarrels not with doom and never did,
And reckon me among the quick who must.
Yet would I sleep tonight at the rose’s root,
Seeing what Time has trampled underfoot.

Below – Jackson Carvalho: “The Story of Wars – After the Battle” (photograph)


Contemporary Belgian Art – Live Maes

Below – “point of view”; “There was a time”; “The moon was yellow”; “Finding balance”; “All the things we were”; “One way or another.”


A Poem for Today

“The Water Carriers”
by Angelo Giambra

On hot days we would see them
leaving the hive in swarms. June and I
would watch them weave their way
through the sugarberry trees toward the pond
where they would stop to take a drink,
then buzz their way back, plump and full of water,
to drop it on the backs of the fanning bees.
If you listened you could hear them, their tiny wings
beating in unison as they cooled down the hive.
My brother caught one once, its bulbous body
bursting with water, beating itself against
the smooth glass wall of the canning jar.
He lit a match, dropped it in, but nothing
happened. The match went out and the bee
swam through the mix of sulfur and smoke
until my brother let it out. It flew straight
back to the hive. Later, we skinny-dipped
in the pond, the three of us, the August sun
melting the world around us as if it were
wax. In the cool of the evening, we walked
home, pond water still dripping from our skin,
glistening and twinkling like starlight.

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